Branches
by Razzaroo
Summary: "I am going home and you're coming with me; your education's been sorely neglected." Contrary to one Mark Blackthorn's preconceptions, there's more to being a Hunter than riding the wind and ferrying souls.
1. Prologue

_There often by him he would see,  
>when noon was hot on leaf and tree,<br>the king of Faerie with his rout  
>came hunting in the woods about,<br>with blowing far and crying dim,  
>and barking hounds that were with him;<br>yet never a beast they took nor slew,_

_and where they went he never knew._

—_from__**Sir Orfeo**__, as translated by__J. R. R. Tolkien_

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><p>When not leading the Wild Hunt across a thundering sky, Gwyn ap Nudd was a quiet faery. Mark watched him through the antlers of the stag he'd been given, hunching over the animal's neck to avoid the sharp points. It felt almost like Gwyn had forgotten his presence; he certainly hadn't noticed as the rest of the Hunt peeled away from him. When Mark glanced back, all he saw were coiling clouds of white.<p>

He cleared his throat, "Where are y-...Where are we going?"

Gwyn drew his horse to a stop and it whisked its tail. The stag stopped as well, its head tipped back, and Mark shrank lower away from the antlers. Gwyn rolled his eyes and gently tugged the stag forward so it was level with his horse.

"You need to stop being afraid of him," Gwyn said, leaning down to gently stroke the stag's nose, "If you ride with the Hunt, you can't be afraid of your mount." He glanced up to meet Mark's mismatched eyes with his own, "You'd do well to name him."

Mark ran a hand down the stag's neck, "Well, excuse me for not wanting to be blinded."

"You're excused," Gwyn straightened up, "But he won't blind you. Learn to trust him. And give him a name." His lip curled, "And don't name him the same as you'd name one of your seraph blades. Shadowhunters are so uncreative in matters as important as naming."

He nudged his horse on again and it picked up its coppery hooves in a way that was almost dainty, continuing up the hill with the assurance and confidence of an animal that had done it many times before. The rope between Gwyn and the stag stretched tighter, the stag waiting patiently for Mark to urge it onwards. Mark sighed and gathered up the thin reins and squeezed the stag's sides with his calves. Its body was so much narrower than the horses he'd grown up riding and it was still unsettling; the idea that he'd slip off because there was nothing to support him lurked in the back of his mind.

"You forget I'm part Shadowhunter," he called out, the rope slackening. He tapped his marks, "A whipping and a gold eye won't change that."

"Oh, but it was more than a whipping, wasn't it boy," Gwyn said, "Enough to have you renounce your family, accept my apples. I will say, I do prefer this version of you to the sulking teenager I was given."

"I was not sulking!" Mark protested hotly, urging the stag to spring forward alongside the black horse "My family had just been murdered. How would you feel?"

He almost instantly regretted it. Gwyn gave him a sideways glance, "Death happens. It happens to Shadowhunters especially, I've noticed."

"I thought you didn't go near where Shadowhunters died."

"You know, Shadowhunters have a nasty tendency for killing people, yes? And sometimes they die whilst they do that? Gwyn snorted, "I don't take all souls but sometimes, Shadowhunters happen to be where I do."

Mark felt a hot anger rise up his neck but he steered the conversation into a different direction, wanting to avoid irritating Gwyn if he could, "You haven't told me where we're going."

"Y Mynyddoedd Duon."

"Come again?"

Gwyn heaved a sigh, "The Black Mountains. I am going home and you're coming with me; your education's been sorely neglected. Latin indeed."

"What would you have me speak?"

"Welsh. Or Gaelic."

"We don't learn Welsh."

"You ought to read up your own family tree in more detail."

From the look on the faery's face, Mark sensed that the conversation was over. He pulled the stag back into step behind Gwyn's horse again. There was still hot frustration simmering under his skin and he found himself smoothing down the soft fur along the stag's neck. Catching sight of the angry scars on his arm made him bite down on his lip, his hand curling into a fist in the stag's fur. The animal snorted and he realised that his other hand was pulling the reins tight, pulling the stag's head uncomfortably high.

"Sorry," he murmured. He was churning over the suggestion to name the stag over in his head, pondering what to call it. While the names of angels were out of the question, he was grappling with the idea of naming it after one of his brothers.

The stag simply lowered its head, its nose trailing at Gwyn's horse's tail. The way its back sloped made Mark cling to the animal's neck; images of him sliding off the stag's rump and toppling back down the hill flashed through his mind.

"Ah, boy," Gwyn's voice startled Mark back out of his thoughts, "Remind me again. What's your name?"

"Mark."

"_March_," Gwyn rolled it over his tongue, "King Mark. Mark of Kernow." When he turned back, there was a sly smile on his mouth.

"Mark Antony, actually," Mark retorted, "After the Roman."

Gwyn waved a hand, "I didn't know any Mark Antony. I know King Mark of Kernow."

They stopped on the other side of the hill, overlooking rolling English fields and tiny farms; they looked like toys, with sheep and cows dotting the velvet fields. Gwyn beckoned for Mark to join him on an old wooden bench, an arrow in his hands.

"You see over there?" he said, voice like the wind. He pointed with his arrow towards the horizon, "_Those_ are the Black Mountains."

Mark could make out the rough shape of them and his heart sank, "They're that far away?"

"Yes."

"So where are we now?"

Gwyn kicked the ground, "This used to be an old fort, before the Roman invaders came. I don't much care what mortals call it now."

They were sat on a ridge on the side of the hill. It was a strangely lumpy slope; it made Mark think of a wedding cake. The ridges resembled steps wrapped around a dome, the earth falling into ditches and rising again in banks up to the peak. The stag and the horse grazed nearby; Gwyn nodded towards them.

"Have you named him yet?"

"No," Mark folded his arms, "What's yours called?"

"Du y Moroedd," Gwyn replied, plucking a blade of grass and chewing on the end, "We've run together for a long time."

"He'll have a name," Mark said, pushing his hair away from his face, "But I want it to feel right; it can't be one I pick because I feel sentimental or angry or whatever. Like you said, names are important."

Gwyn's mouth unfurled into a slow grin, "Now you're thinking like a faery."

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><p><strong>AN. Yes, hello. This is my first Mortal Instruments fic and what do I do? Write about minor characters who won't be getting page time until the Dark Artifices. I make excellent choices with my life. Anyway, if all goes to plan, this will end up including figures from Celtic mythology, especially Welsh, and maybe touching on some more general European stuff as well. Though I have to wait on a copy of the **_**The**_ **_Mabinogion _so I might not update for a little bit.**


	2. A Name and A Bow

**A/N. A sort of continuation from the first bit. And then on to other stuff.**

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><p>"What about Telephus?" Mark mused, "He was Hercules's son, you know."<p>

The stag flicked an ear at him. It had barely left his side the whole time he'd been here, following him around the soft hills and elegant halls of Annwn. Mark leant against the animal's warm side and he felt its ribs expand in a heavy sigh; it laid its head on the grass and peered up at him with an eye as dark as the night sky, sprinkled with stars. Mark set down the book that he'd taken from Gwyn's rooms and gave the stag's nose a gentle scratch.

"And Actaeon's no good," he said, "Considering what happened to him."

He looked down at the thin pages in his lap, absently flicking through them. Very few of the names in these accounts were familiar to him; he could rattle off the names of countless demons and every angel known to man but these were new.

"Herne?" he said, "For Herne the Hunter."

"I'll have you know, Herne the Hunter is a friend of mine," Gwyn said drily, his voice seemingly coming from nowhere. Mark turned to see the tall faery behind him, dressed in his armour of interlocking leaves, antlered helmet under one arm; in the crook of the other, he was carrying something long, wrapped in rough cloth. His pale eye gleamed, "A fair name, though perhaps not the best fit."

Mark tensed but Gwyn didn't look angry at him for taking the book. There was a faint look of amusement on the faery's face.

"A gift," Gwyn said, stepping up and dropping the bundle into Mark's lap, "From me to you."

The folds of cloth fell away to reveal a recurve bow and a quiver of dark-tipped arrows. Mark slid one of the arrows out of the quiver and examined it, turning it over in his hands. The fletchings were white and the arrowhead gleamed silver.

"A Huntsman has no better friends than his arrows and his bow," Gwyn said. He stooped to gather up the cloth, "Stand."

Mark set the bow and book aside before he stood. Gwyn shook out the cloth and draped it over Mark's shoulders, fastening it at the throat and pulling up the hood.

"Now you look more the part," Gwyn said, picking up his helmet where he'd dropped it. He nodded toward the stag, "Have him saddled and ready to go within the hour; we ride at moonrise."

He turned on his heel, donning his helmet. Mark glanced down at the stag before watching Gwyn's retreating back.

"You know, in a world of constant noon, it's impossible to know how much time passes!" he shouted, whilst the stag climbed to its hooves. Gwyn just waved his hand dismissively.

Mark felt his shoulders slump. The stag nuzzled at his cheek and he reached up to scratch the spot behind its ear. The cloak felt heavy on his shoulders and it smelled like the air before a rainstorm.

"You're not so bad though, are you?" he said quietly, "Just…don't lick me, all right?"

He crouched down to gather up the bow and arrows. Catching sight of the page the book had fallen open to, he froze. Soft, grass-sweet breath ghosted over his cheek as the stag bent its head down.

"Yeah," he said, tracing the antlers that bordered the page, "I like it too."

He picked up the quiver and strapped it to his waist before slinging the bow over his back and tucking the book under his arm. When he stood, the stag inclined its head and he took hold of one of its antlers, using it as leverage to get on the animal's back.

"Put the book back first. And then we'll guess the time."

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><p>Riding with the Wild Hunt was the most exhilarating experience of Mark's life. The first time, it had been terrifying, balanced precariously in front of Gwyn ap Nudd, clinging on to a mess of black mane for dear life.<p>

Now, with his own mount, he thrilled in it. The wind was icy against his face and swept his hood back, roaring in his head, and his stomach swooped when he looked down to see the ground beneath him in patches of black and moonlit silver. The air thundered with the sound of hooves, sang with the baying of hounds. Beneath him, he could feel every muscle in the stag's body pushing its powerful gallop.

"Ay, Margh!" there was a tug on his cloak and Steren rode up alongside him, her hounds' eyes glowing, her cloud of starlit hair streaming behind her, "Look, we're over Idris!"

Mark looked down only to see the bulk of a mountain, the reflection of the night sky gleaming in the rippling water of a lake; the rock seemed to curve around the water, standing in jagged peaks at its sides. The mountain stretched out behind and in front. Gwyn raised a hand and gestured to descend. Steren cackled and Mark scowled, even as his stomach lurched up into his throat as the stag leapt down to follow Du y Moroedd.

Cadair Idris. Important to Shadowhunter history but hardly his homeland.

Mark spurred the stag onward. Water splashed up in a flurry of white crystals as the Hunt charged over it.

Gwyn gave him a sideways glance, "Named him yet?"

"Yes," Mark frowned, "Cadair Idris? _Idris_?"

"Idris Gawr sat here and studied the stars long before Jonathan Shadowhunter was a twinkle in his mother's eye," Gwyn retorted, "And it's been my favourite hunting ground for even longer. Name?"

Mark took one hand from the reins to rub the stag's neck, "Cernunnos."

"Fitting," Gwyn said, grinning. He tipped his head back and laughed, a raucous howling sound that the rest of the Hunt echoed, a sound that sang through the mountains on the wind.


	3. Black Annis

**A/N. So, while Black Annis isn't what I would call obscure (she has a wiki page, after all) she's not well known enough that I could find any quotes for her. She has a little section in Katherine Briggs' "Dictionary of Fairies" as well, which is a nice place to do some reading on British faeries. **

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><p>There were skins stretched out on the rack underneath the oak tree. Mark stared in morbid fascination as a fly crawled over one of them, as the light that filtered between the oak leaves danced dappled patterns over them. The air smelled of wood smoke, a thin wisp coming from the cave.<p>

"Would you hurry up and come in, boy?" Black Annis wheezed from inside the cave, "You shouldn't lurk in entrance ways; it's _rude." _

"Says a lot about his upbringing, no?" Gwyn said and the pair of them laughed.

Mark shouldered his bow and stepped into the cave. The stone floor was cold against his bare feet and the sudden lack of warmth from the sun made him shudder. The inside of the cave was threadbare in terms of furniture but what little there was looked just as morbid as the skins outside: a chair built from bones and a bed to match, the posts topped with sheep skulls; a shelf where a small human skull looked down at the inhabitants; a rug woven from human hair.

Black Annis squatted near her small fire pit in the centre, poking at it. An old copper pot boiled over it, the contents dark and smelling of copper. Annis's iron claws scraped on the ground as she tapped the stone floor alongside her.

"Sit here, boy," she said, voice raspy, "Let me look at you."

Mark looked to Gwyn with a raised eyebrow but Gwyn just shrugged. His posture was easy and relaxed, as if he and Black Annis were old friends. Annis set out three dented tin cups as Mark folded his legs underneath him and settled on the cave floor. Almost immediately, Annis gripped his jaw, turning his face towards her. The iron of her talons was like ice and burnt just as badly.

"Hmm," she said, reaching up to his right eye, holding the eyelid open to examine the gold iris, "I didn't think he was your kind, Gwyn ap Nudd."

"He was a gift," Gwyn replied, "A gesture of good will from the New York Queen."

"Pah!" Annis let go of Mark's jaw and spat into her fire, "Pretender, you mean. She doesn't hold a candle to our Maeve." She raked a hand through her thin hair, "Why is she giving you gifts of Nephilim boys?"

"She wanted a favour," Gwyn said, "She's hardly the first."

"Arthur is more than she'll ever be."

"Perhaps. But it was interesting all the same."

The kettle was starting to whistle and Annis turned her attention to that, stirring the dark tea with an old spoon. She poured the tea out into the tin cups.

"So then," she said, "Which Shadowhunter family are you from? The ones who wanted to destroy those not like them? The one who made history in Gwyn ap Nudd's favourite mountain?"

"The Herondales," Gwyn interjected, "I remember him."

"Blackthorn," Mark said, accepting the cup she pressed towards him, "I'm Mark Blackthorn."

"Herondale, Blackthorn, they're all the same in the end," Annis said, "As old as we are, it becomes useless trying to separate all of you; you all blend together in time."

The stink of copper rose from the up in waves of steam and Mark glanced towards Gwyn to see if he'd noticed; if he had, the faery didn't give anything away, accepting his own cup and taking a long drink from it without even a flicker. Nose wrinkling at the smell, Mark took a hesitant sip.

The metallic, sickly taste of blood flooded his mouth and he gagged, dropping the cup so its contents sizzled on the fire. Gwyn looked at him in mild amusement.

"A new blend, Annis?" he asked politely, thumping Mark on the back.

Black Annis looked into her kettle, "It's the same." She looked up at Mark with a creeping smile, "Can't handle a bit of lamb's blood, my boy? There are mortals with more mettle than you."

Something complained in Mark's stomach but he lifted his head. He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and it came away streaked with dark red tea.

"Why have you asked me here, Annis?" Gwyn asked, finishing off his own tea, "Angry ghosts keeping you awake at night? Need something hidden from the Nephilims next, ah, inspection?"

"Angry ghost is one way to put it," Annis grimaced, "The babe screams and cries for its mother all night long. You'd think it would leave on its own; I gave it back to the mother."

Mark felt something cold sink into the pit of his stomach, "You killed a child?"

Annis turned to glare at him, her milky blue eyes blazing like fire, "You think I'm an idiot? If I so much as touched a _hair_ on a child's head these days, your people would be on me like hounds on a lamb. As if I would do something so stupid, putting myself in danger under laws written up by some jumped up half-angels who haven't been on this Earth long enough to dictate how my Folk live!"

"The Law is hard but it's the Law," Mark said icily, "And it's there for a reason."

"But it doesn't apply to humans," Annis said, showing pebbly iron teeth, "Ask the each uisges up north, who have been near wiped out by humans slaughtering them; the humans get nothing for destroying homelands and killing us, but we so much as breathe near one and the Nephilim punish us for existing." She spat again, "The Law is hard and the Law is _unfair_."

"The Law protects our world from theirs. If it wasn't for the Law, mundanes would have hunted the Fey down by now."

"We managed well enough without having our every move monitored," Annis licked her lips, "Humans used to fear us and that kept us safe."

Mark opened his mouth to retort but Gwyn moved forward and clapped a hand over his mouth, "You will be quiet, _March, _else she might decide it's your skin she wants drying in the sun." He paused, "Not that I blame her; those Marks would make excellent decorations."

Black Annis's look of anger melted away into her quiet, secretive smile again; there was a look in her eye that was smugly satisfied.

"What happened?" Gwyn asked, "If you didn't kill them, who did?"

"Wandered off, died in the wood," Annis peered out of the mouth of her cave, "I took the skin but the parents got the body back, all nicely dressed up in glamour to make it seem whole."

"And you want me to take the soul?" Gwyn mused, tightening his hand over Mark's mouth, "Interesting."

"It's your role," Annis said.

"Only one of many," Gwyn said, standing and hauling Mark to his feet, "I'll take care of your little lost soul, Annis."

He turned and marched Mark out of the cave. Once back out in the sunlight, he let his arm drop to his side and Mark sucked in a breath that didn't smell of damp earth and rain.

"What were you doing in there?" Gwyn asked, keeping his tone mild.

"Defending the Law."

"I see," Gwyn leant in towards him, "You are not a Shadowhunter anymore; they have abandoned you." When Mark looked away, Gwyn gripped his chin and forced him to look back, "You belong to the Hunt now."

"That shouldn't change how I think about Shadowhunters."

"No. I'm not asking it to; if I was, it would be so," Gwyn let go of his chin, "But next time, keep quiet. The Fey here are ancient folk and have their reasons to be frustrated. Next time, I might let them skin you."

He turned and disappeared into the forest. After a few moments of smouldering in his own frustration, Mark followed, twigs and stones digging into his bare feet. Behind him, the skin beat against the wind, a macabre sheet from a macabre faery.


	4. The Declaration and the Hind's Heart

"_In thy face I see the map of honour, truth and loyalty."_

_**Henry VI,**__ William Shakespeare._

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><p>Mark only realised how drunk he really was when Gilfaethwy kissed him. One arm around his shoulders, the other hooked under his left leg, lifting him off of the ground and tipping him back. Gilfaethwy's mouth tasted like sweet honeyed wine and the skin of his bare back was smooth beneath Mark's fingers.<p>

"A little amateur," Gilfaethwy murmured. He set Mark back down on his feet and Mark felt his head spin, a mix of alcohol and vertigo. He nearly fell against the edge of one of the tables, causing it to rattle underneath him. Gilfaethwy laughed and hauled him upward, pushing another goblet of wine into his hands. "We should get Shadowhunters drunk more often."

"I'm not a Shadowhunter anymore," Mark slurred, and he tipped the goblet back, swallowing back wine that was as sweet as summer. A drop trickled down his chin.

"Mmhmm, I believe it," Gilfaethwy said, tracing a finger up Mark throat, "But why are these Marks still here?"

"And why haven't you given your declaration to Gwyn yet?" Steren asked, sidling up alongside him. He was suddenly penned in by the pair of them.

"I didn't know I had to."

"Oh, but of course," Gilfaethwy said gravely, "It's customary, so he _knows_ he has your loyalty."

Mark frowned, "You're lying."

"Faeries can't lie," Steren said, leaning on his shoulder and twisting a lock of her white hair around her finger.

"Half faeries can," Mark corrected her and his words started to run together. He'd learnt that lesson too late, "And 'sides, he's not a faery."

"True," Gilfaethwy conceded, "But that's not a barrier to being one of Gwyn's Hunters."

Mark swayed where he stood and, for a moment, the hall spun around him. He pulled away from Gilfaethwy and sat down on the edge of the table, cradling his head in his hands. He felt like his head was empty. The sound of the revel pressed against his ears.

"What's a declaration for?"

"To prove you're loyal through and through," Steren said, waving a hand, "You say you're loyal forever, he says do something to prove it, you do it, end of story. It's easy enough."

Mark looked up to where Gwyn was lounging, deep in conversation with a dark-haired man who looked a lot like Gilfaethwy. His teeth found his bottom lip. He'd thought that accepting the food that Gwyn offered was enough to rope him into the Wild Hunt but apparently not. He looked back down at his feet.

"I don't remember the last time I wore shoes," he said before sliding off the table, ignoring the mix of amusement and concern that flitted across Gilfaethwy's face, "I have to go."

He pushed past them and through the throng of fey and Annwn residents towards Gwyn. Hands grasped at him, holding him still to try and get a look at his Marks, and he twisted away from them. Nails scratched at him and the world hurtled on around him, too fast and utterly too hot. His feet fell from underneath him and he hit the floor with a thud, his teeth clicking together as his jaw smacked against the floor. He pressed his cheek to the cool floor for a moment, willing his head to stop spinning. After a few moments, he pushed himself to his feet and managed to make his way to Gwyn.

"You've been wine tasting, yes?" Gwyn said, standing and grabbing hold of Mark's shoulders to steady his swaying, "Maybe a little less next time."

Mark grabbed at Gwyn's wrists. His face still felt flushed with drink. He plucked Gwyn's hands form his shoulders.

"I'm fine."

"So why do you come and interrupt my conversation with Gwydion?" Gwyn looked over my shoulder, "Who has now vanished, it seems."

"People keep calling me a Shadowhunter."

"But you were a Shadowhunter."

"Not anymore," Mark's knees folded and cracked against the stone floor. Gwyn raised an eyebrow but didn't pull him up.

"Are you about to propose marriage, Mark Blackthorn?" he asked, "Because I have to say, there is someone I know, and I have arrangements to see her on May Day."

Mark's head nodded forward slightly and any embarrassment he might have felt was swallowed under another wave of light-headedness, "I, Mark Blackthorn, declare myself to you and to the Wild Hunt." He swallowed, "I'm prepared to sever all connections to the Nephilim and the Clave."

Gwyn crouched down in front of him and nudged him to lift his head. There was a satisfied gleam in Gwyn's mismatched eyes, "Is that so."

When Mark nodded, Gwyn hauled him to his feet again, "Why don't you _prove_ it?"

Mark lifted his head and looked Gwyn in the eye, gold meeting pale blue, black to sea blue. The surrounding revel fell still and silent.

"I will," Mark said, and his voice came out remarkably clear and steady, "I can do it."

"Have him swallow a hind's heart!"

"In one sitting!" Gilfaethwy crowed, and the other chorused their agreement.

"Just remember that you asked for this," Gwyn murmured before he called out, "Have one of the deer slaughtered and the heart brought here; we'll have the rest tomorrow."

By the time the heart was brought to him, Mark was starting to sober up. He was kneeling on the top of a circular table and the plate was set down in front of him; the lump of muscle glistened with gore and was still warm when Mark prodded it.

"You can still fold," Gilfaethwy said, leaning over the table with a cunning grin, "Though you'd be relegated to the back of the Hunt if you do."

Mark glared at him and picked the heart up with both hands. His stomach churned when he lifted it and he suddenly regretted every drop of wine he'd swallowed. The smell of blood filled his nose and thickened at the back of his throat and his hands were coated in the stuff.

There was a roar of approval when he took the first bite. Mark nearly retched and he could feel bits of flesh stuck between his teeth. His mouth was thick with copper and he could feel blood running down his chin. He didn't dare look down at his hands; instead, he found Gwyn's gaze and held it, even when he lifted the heart to continue.

Halfway through, Mark wanted to be sick. The heart was utterly mangled and his hands were gloved in gore. There were whispers running through the crowd; when he heard Steren murmuring that he'd never manage the whole heart, he squashed down the sick gurgling in his stomach, absolutely determined to finish.

In a twisted way, the whole thing reminded him of one of Julian's ridiculous competitions with Emma, when he'd been roped into timing who could eat a plate of spaghetti the fastest.

'_You've lost your crown, Jules,' _he thought as he choked down the last of the heart, '_I'm officially the king of eating competitions.'_

He forced himself to swallow rather than spit the last of the blood before he stood up. He could only imagine how he looked: arms streaked with blood to the elbows, face smeared with it, throat caked in red and teeth clotted and pink. He looked pointedly at Gwyn.

"Told you I could do it," he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Steren slip some silver into Gilfaethwy's hand, her expression dour.

Gwyn stood and made his way through the assembled fey. He beckoned Mark to the edge of the table and lifted him, arms around his waist.

"Very impressive," Gwyn murmured, as Mark wrapped his legs around his narrow waist, "You'll ride at my right hand, tonight and every night onwards."

Mark dipped his head so that Gwyn could hear him over the clamouring of the crowd, "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Then you can be the one to clean my cloak, boy."


	5. Herne the Hunter

**A/N. I have accidentally created a new BrOTP for myself; Gwyn + Herne the Hunter, besties forever.**

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><p><em>You have heard of such a spirit, and well you know<em>

_The superstitious idle-headed eld_

_Receiv'd, and did deliver to our age,_

_This tale of __**Herne the Hunter**__ for a truth._

— _**William Shakespeare**__, The Merry Wives of Windsor_

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><p>Herne the Hunter was as tall as an oak and as thin as a rake. He watched the world from underneath a black hood topped with arching antlers, his eyes points of light as bright as stars. Mark's witchlight only cast a small puddle of light across him; it was as if his cloak absorbed every light cast his way.<p>

"Gwyn, son of Nudd," Herne said, tipping his head with a grin, "Come to visit me from down in the valleys, have you?" His voice rolled in an imitation of Gwyn's accent.

"I have few friends, Herne," Gwyn said, sliding down from Du y Moroedd's back, "I have to treasure the ones that I do manage to hold on to."

Mark held Cernunnos back and away from them, examining the backdrop of the forest. The eyes of an owl glinted from the branches of the twisting oak over Herne's head. Herne stepped out from the shadow of his oak and, for the first time, Mark noticed the noose that hung around his neck.

"So you visit me in the middle of winter?" Herne said, though there was little irritation in his voice, more a playful fondness, "Cheeky bastard, waking me up when I'm meant to be sleeping."

Gwyn tugged on the antlered hood, "When did you ever know a stag to hibernate like you do?" He looked back to where Mark hung back with Cernunnos, "Besides, I didn't have time to come all the way from Wales before. I had a war to get involved in and then I had to break in the new boy."

"Break him in?" Herne looked over at Mark with lamp-like eyes, "What, you've got him sucking your cock already?" He cackled like a magpie.

"Oh, you're vile," Gwyn said. His own sly grin appeared, "The answer's not yet."

The pair of them both laughed and Mark backed Cernunnos away from them, steering him through the trees until their voices faded. His eyes, sharpened by the Hunt as much as by his marks, picked out the shape of a long arm, the bend of a knee, the glint of an eye. Looking at the forest as a whole, it looked only like a huddle of trees; closer inspection revealed the shapes of Herne's Hunt, watching every move he made. The tree closest to him cracked and moved as Cernunnos sniffed to close, the Huntsman raising one bark clad arm to rub behind the stag's ear.

"Not until spring, my friend," the Huntsman said, looking up to meet Mark's eyes with a gaze that glittered like stars. Cernunnos snorted and arched his neck, stamping his front hoof. The lumpy rock at the Huntsman's feet growled and it was only then that Mark realised it was one of the Hunt's hounds.

Herne's managed to gather and turn his entire Hunt into a forest for the winter.

The Huntsman went still again, though his eyes still shine in the dim light of winter. Mark was the one to break eye contact first, looking down at his feet which were tinged blue with cold.

"Well, this is the creepiest place I've ever been," he said, glancing around to where the rest of them stood, all of them watching silently with star-like eyes, "And in my line of work, that says a lot."

A whistle pierced the air, three long notes followed by two short. Mark turned his head and lifted his fingers to his mouth to return the whistle, the sound high and thin. He turned Cernunnos back to where he'd left Gwyn. A thick fog was starting to roll in, coiling around Cernunnos's fetlocks and obscuring the lumpy hounds; the figures that made up the forest became tall, thin shadows.

"Been introducing yourself to my Hunt, have you?" Herne asked, and Mark could almost imagine a cocked eyebrow beneath the cowl.

"Only one," Mark replied, "Accidentally."

"That happens when you go wandering," Gwyn said, head slightly tilted, unlacing his fingers in a gesture that Mark had seen him use when he was feeling judgemental, "You get snatched by strange men. Such as Iolo over there."

"You know him?"

"He was my best Huntsman," Gwyn bemoaned, "Before Herne _stole_ him!"

Herne grinned, "He came willingly. I might end up getting your new boy in a few years."

"I don't think so," Mark said stiffly, "I didn't eat a whole deer's heart just to leave for someone else."

"And you say I'm bad," Herne said, "None of my Hunters had to eat a heart for their declaration."

"You made one of them weave you a cloak of starlight."

"Which she did beautifully," Herne sighed, "So, Blackthorn, how is Gwyn treating you in Annwn? And his Hunt, of course."

"Fine," Mark scratched the back of his neck, whilst Cernunnos shifted, "I'm used to it. They don't leave me alone much."

"Yes, Gwyn's Hunt is clingy," Herne said.

"It's because he's so…green," Gwyn shrugged, "Like a pony."

"That doesn't mean I want people following me everywhere."

"_March, _that's what we do," Gwyn said, leaning on Cernunnos, "We eat together, we revel together, we hunt together, we sleep together." He paused, "Though you've dodged that part."

Gwyn and Herne both laughed again. Mark huffed, resisting the urge to back Cernunnos away so Gwyn would lose his balance, and marvelled at how easily amused the two of them were. For a pair who had lived for centuries, they laughed easily.

"Anyway," Gwyn said, wiping the grin form his face until it was just a smirk, "Herne, about why I came."

"Wait, we came here for a reason?"

"Yes, of course _March_, keep up," Gwyn said, either not picking up on the sarcasm or ignoring it, "I need a favour."

"Ah?" Herne picked at his teeth, "What do you need?"

"I need Iolo, actually," Gwyn said. He tapped Mark's ankle, "He still doesn't have his hounds. I thought I'd ask some of my oldest friends for help. You'll ask him for me, when he wakes up, won't you?"

Herne reached across Cernunnos, across the front of Mark's saddle, to grip Gwyn's shoulder. Mark suddenly felt like he was caught in the middle of something, like the third wheel.

"For you, my friend," Herne said, "Anything."


	6. Cwn Annwn

**A/N. I'm back from my holiday! Not that any of you guys knew I was _on _holiday but I'm back. And this thing turned out so differently to how I planned. Isn't that just the way?**

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><p>"When's your name day,<em>March<em>?"

Mark looked up, "You mean my birthday? You already missed it; what does it matter to you?"

Gwyn heaved a sigh, as if he was irritated that Mark had the gall to be born on a date before he'd bothered to ask, "I can't keep giving you things without occasion; people will start to talk. They'll think you're my favourite." He pressed one palm to his forehead, his face a mask of melodrama, "They'll start to talk. They'll think you're my _cariad."_

"I'm your what now?"

"And I thought we were making so much progress with your language," Gwyn said, "It doesn't matter. Just come with me."

It was with some reluctance that Mark followed; the last time, he'd ended up falling through the ice of Scottish lake and had had to be fished out of the hands of a colony of merrows. Gwyn had found it hilarious; Mark still couldn't feel his toes properly.

"Wipe that look off of your face,_ March_," Gwyn said, dropping back and slinging an arm around Mark's shoulders, "I won't let you fall into another lake. I've gotten quite fond of you, really."

"I thought you liked me anyway."

"I liked bits of you."

"Which bits?"

"Well, this bit," Gwyn reached up to pinch Mark's cheek, "You have a very nice face." When that elicited a grin, he continued, tweaking Mark's curls, "And I like this bit. And you have excellent shoulders."

"Flatterer," Mark said, "You sound like you want favours."

"If I wanted favours, I'd get them from someone else," Gwyn's fingers trailed down Mark's face, tracing along his cheekbone and jaw line, "You know I wouldn't make you do anything you don't want."

"You brought me here."

"You told me you wanted to come with me," Gwyn frowned, "Or have you decided that Meliorn's whip is more to your taste?"

Mark shuddered and quickly changed topic, "What does any of this have to do with what you're showing me?"

The heaviness in Gwyn's eyes lifted, "Nothing at all. Excited?"

"It's hard to get excited; the last time someone showed me something here, I got spat on."

"This won't spit on you. Drool a little, maybe."

"Have you got me a dog?"

"Oh, you weren't supposed to guess so soon," Gwyn lamented, "But yes, you could call it a dog. A Huntsman needs his hounds."

Gwyn steered Mark out towards the fields of Annwn, down through lawns of flowers. Overhead, the sky was starting to darken, the blue of summer turning slowly to the dusky purple of twilight. Towards the horizon, the white points of stars were starting to appear.

"If this is the land of the dead," Mark said, "Then why does time pass? And why in such a weird way?"

"It changes as I want it to," Gwyn explains, snatching up flowers, "If I want it to be dawn, then it's dawn. If I want it to be night, then the sun sets. Everything here is how I want it to be."

"Even what's over that wall that you've told me again and again never to go near?"

"Annwn is not my only kingdom, _March," _Gwyn said, absently weaving the flowers into a wreath, "But of course, feel free to go over the wall; you're safest here but I've noticed that your kind don't always do what is safe."

He dropped the ring of flowers onto Mark's head and beckoned him forward towards a cage of thorns.

"Iolo picked her out for you," he said, picking the thorned branches apart, "One of our best. Only fitting for my newest right hand."

Mark stepped forward to look. The hound was a huge muscled creature, with a shaggy coat the colour of snow and ears tipped in red. A red tongue lolled from the side of its mouth and it was remarkably calm, despite the fire that blazed behind its eyes. It clambered out of the thorns and sniffed at Mark, pressing its muzzle against his stomach. His hands tangled in the thick fur on the animal's ruff.

"I was expecting it to, I dunno, jump all over me or something," He said, even as the hound jostled him back. The crown of flowers slipped down over one eye, "Are they supposed to be this quiet?"

"She's very tired," Gwyn said, "That and there's nothing to be excited over. Have you never met a dog, _March?" _

"I don't usually see hell hounds as being calm," Mark said. The hound dragged its tongue up over his forearm, "I expected more barking and snarling."

"I beg your pardon, _March_, but she isn't from your Christian Hell," Gwyn said, and he sounded almost offended, "Her name is Afanen and she was born and bred right here, in Annwn. You apologise to her at once."

"She isn't offended," Mark paused, "Afanen?"

"Afanen."

The hound, Afanen, managed to knock his balance, butting against his hip, the tail starting to whirl when Mark scratched behind her ears.

"Now you're finally a proper Hunter," he said, "I say this calls for a proper Wild Hunt celebration."

"You take any excuse to get drunk."

"This one is a good one. And the drinking shall wait until later, after we ride and you stretch her legs."

Mark moved his hand to scratch at the soft spot under Afanen's jaw. "Th-" he paused and instead fished for the word in Welsh, "_Diolch, _Gwyn."

"_A chroeso_," Gwyn said softly, reaching out to adjust the flower crown.


	7. Nightmares

**A/N. I'm still not sure what I'm doing. Alas, this is the life I have chosen for myself.**

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><p><em>I would enter your sleep if I could, and guard you there, and slay the thing that hounds you, as I would if it had the courage to face me in fair daylight. But I cannot come in unless you dream of me.<em>

_ —__**Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn**_

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><p>Mark had no idea how long he'd been with Gwyn when the nightmares started. They only happened in Annwn, so he'd taken to falling asleep slumped in Cernunnos's saddle when the Hunt turned homewards at dawn; despite the stiff neck it gave him, it was infinitely better than the horrors that had started to spring up in his dreams at night.<p>

He'd taken to wandering the orchards and fields of Annwn, pacing in the open roofed halls of Gwyn's home. The stars peeked through the intertwined branches of the vines that arched overhead and the moon, forever trapped as a half moon, was hidden behind gliding clouds. Afanen padded in his footsteps.

Annwn was quiet in a way that Los Angeles never had been but, more than that, it was lonely.

He dropped down onto the grass on top of a hill, underneath a hanging oak tree. Afanen wriggled under his arm and rested her head on his lap. She looked up at him with drooping eyes and her tongue lolled out of the corner of her mouth; for a moment, she looked like the pet dog that Mark had always wanted to own when he was growing up.

"I think there are two separate versions of you," he told her, "One is that savage thing that I was running with today."

"And the other is the docile creature in your lap," Mark flinched when he heard Gwyn's voice behind him. He focussed on scratching the soft spot between Afanen's ears while Gwyn sat on his opposite side.

"How do you keep finding me?" Mark asked, "Wherever I go, you seem to be able to catch up."

"You're not subtle anymore, _March_," Gwyn replied, "You used to be; when you first came, you were very good at sneaking around. Now? You've gotten too comfortable."

"You mean I'm not trying to find a way to get back home now."

"Exactly," Gwyn gave Mark a long look and tapped his lower lip, mocking consideration, "Now, the question is, why is Mark Blackthorn wandering my little kingdom at night?"

"It's nicer at night," Mark said off-handedly, "I get it all to myself."

"That's not all, _March_," Gwyn leant in closer, "You think I haven't noticed that you've lost sleep? The truth of it is written all over your face, painted beneath your eyes. What ails you?"

"Nothing. I just can't sleep." When Gwyn carried on studying him, he sighed, "I have dreams. Most people do. You might not but you're weird."

"I used up most of my dreams, though I still have them. I've just had the same ones many times."

"You must have very boring nights," Mark said, "Like watching the same movie over and over again?"

"It's not so bad," Gwyn said thoughtfully, "More like revisiting a beloved story. Well, apart from the nightmares, of course. Is it nightmares that bring you out here, _March_?"

Mark tore up handful of grass and didn't look at Gwyn. Afanen let out a low whine in her throat and her eyes flicked between the two of them. Eventually, Mark sighed, letting a small breeze snatch away the blades of grass from between his fingers; some of them caught in Afanen's white fur, small needles of black against her fur.

"About my family," he admitted, "My brothers and sisters, being tortured, being killed. Is that, I dunno, _normal _for here or is something just fucking with me?"

"Annwn is a place for peace," Gwyn said, "It's meant to be a place of rest and revelry for the dearly departed of the mortal world. Arawn was probably much better suited to it but he's retired." He rubbed at his chin, "Whatever's plaguing you, _March_, it isn't Annwn."

"Maybe I'll start sleeping during the day," Mark said, trying to shift his thoughts away from his nightmares. The image of Drusilla stuck through with thorns lingered far too long. His hands balled up around Afanen's fur, "The sun has a way of making people feel safer."

"Perhaps," Gwyn said, "But maybe it isn't a sun that you need. The sun might light up your days but it isn't your days that are the problem. Perhaps what you really need is the moon, to brighten your darkest hours."

"Poetic."

"I thought so," Gwyn chuckled but he quickly sobered, "Of course, if you're going to carry on being any sort of decent Huntsman, you can't be sleeping in the saddle. I can find a way to dispel these nightmares if you want, but know I can't do anything unless you start to truly and fully trust me and let me in."

"Can you blame me for not doing that?" Mark said, leaning one elbow on his knee, "After how I _met _you?"

"For not trusting me? No; not many do," Gwyn stood and brushed grass form his cloak, "But I need you to at least try."


End file.
